Comfort Me
by noplaceforabasketcase
Summary: More than a kiss occurs in the boys' locker room that afternoon. Kurt is left shattered, and Blaine tries to piece the boy he's beginning to love together again, if only to redeem himself for his own quieted past as someone else's accidental Karofsky.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello! So this would be my first Glee fanfiction I guess. The story begins during "Never Been Kissed," and sort of veers off course a bit. I ship Klaine and love angst and fluff, and those things will probably really shine through. I have a bit of a K****laine story to follow this, so this shouldn't be the end. Reviews are love and motivation!**

COURAGE - - - BLAINE

He'd slipped his phone out of his pocket for what seemed like the hundredth time since he'd received the message during Glee club rehearsal. He couldn't help it, the corners of his mouth turned up into a rare silly grin, one that he so sparsely sported in these familiar hallways that he seemed hardly recognizable, too-deep dimples his elderly relatives found pleasure in poking and coo-ing over visiting the tender skin at the edge of his lips as he read and reread the slightly fingerprinted screen of his iPhone. And then the words disappeared.

_Smack_

His shoulder blades came quickly in contact with the chilled metal of the locker he'd hit, his eyes still trained on his phone which, after being swatted out of his hand, spun across the hallway and narrowly avoided being crushed by the stomping teenage feet which trampled around it, it's message still brightly glowing as it thumped against the opposite wall. His mind registered _pain_ and a shudder ran from his now aching shoulders down to his neatly filed toenails, bruises along his back from past encounters with his current tormentor springing to life on contact with locker 7046. Unfazed, Karofsky spun to face him one last time, his face a hard, glossed-over mask, before stalking away.

Kurt couldn't tell you whether or not things would have been different had it not been for his trip to spy on the Warblers, for Blaine's counseling, or for the word, three hyphens, and six-lettered name currently clouded by a "Low Battery" warning throbbing on the screen of his phone across the hall, but suddenly he was tossing himself after the burly football player, calling out as if it wasn't the most terrifying thing he'd ever done. On his way he passed so many faces hosting empty glances, each familiar considering how consistently he watched as they refused to turn his way or pick him up from the filthy floor, which had always left him brushing off his designer jeans after collecting himself.

"I am talking to you!" he screeched, approximately two octaves higher than he would have wished to squeak out in the presence of the overgrown child who consistently mocked him for those damned countertenor vocals. He wasn't sure _who_ he was talking to, however, when he demanded "What is your problem?" in response to a predictable "you're a girl" quip from David. Because whose problem was this anyway? Was it the ignorant, vicious boy before him, or the tiny, meek victim in his mind who screamed at him to take those few steps out and escape the confines of the empty locker room before the larger boy got any good swings in?

"Excuse me?" And now Karofsky was turning to face him and Kurt was once again taken aback by just how _large_ the right guard was and beginning to wonder just how many inches and especially pounds the jock's frame must have had on his own petite silhouette. "What are you so scared of?"

"Besides you sneaking in here to peek at my junk?" suggested David, tossing aside the cleats he'd just pulled from his locker, giving Kurt just a moment to wonder what exactly he intended to do with his now free hands before he retaliated. "Oh, yeah, every straight guy's nightmare, that all gays are secretly out to molest and convert you, well guess what, Hamhock? You're not my type." He took a breath and realized that his brain must have needed the oxygen, considering that it was suddenly switched on and noticing that _what the hell was he doing? Did he want to sleep in the dumpster outside the school tonight?_

"That right?" Now Karofsky was inching his way forward, towering over him and just daring Kurt's shining blue eyes to glance upward and meet his own sharp glare. "Yeah…" The proximity was horrifying. So many biting remarks would have usually scared the dim-witted jerk off with a perplexed, grunt and superior jerk of the head. _Why was he so close?_ "I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty."

His fist in the air, swinging briefly at nothing in warning, Karofsky managed "Do _not_ push me, Hummel" through a set of gritted teeth, temporary stunning the younger boy. _He's struggling_, Kurt thought. Maybe he could get him to leave, to back away and give him space to breathe again. Maybe he could frighten him off, confuse him, challenge him until Kurt could take a step or two forward himself without smacking into the football player.

"You gonna hit me? _Do it._" The locker between them slammed shut.

_He was sick of this._

"_Don't push me._"

_Why the hell not?_

"Because it's not gonna change who I am. You can't punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you!"

"Get out of my face!" The scream echoed for a moment and seemed to scare them both before Kurt, who was the one to close the gap between them this time, mustered up one last ounce of courage – thank you, Blaine – and shook a single finger just like a mother would have done shouting the final thing he knew to be true "You are _nothing _but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary he is!"

Everything happened very quickly, then.

Kurt didn't know much about romance. He'd read an array of books with serious-looking men with flowing hair and unbuttoned tops and sweet, busty, flawless women gracing their covers. He'd watched eighties movies and had maybe too many petty duets from albums, soundtracks, and cast recordings alike on his iPod, but he knew nothing of what it meant to be intimate. He had gathered though, that a kiss was meant to be soft, and warm. You were supposed to want more, and want it badly. You were supposed to feel that spark – those fireworks, like it was the fourth of July and you were looking up above you from a picnic blanket at the blooming fireworks and munching happily on a twizzler or some other snack food. You were supposed to be in love, and the introduction of your lips to one another was supposed to be a release, a way to say "I love you" while rendering your lips unavailable to voice it themselves.

You weren't supposed to feel like this. Kurt wasn't supposed to feel like this.

They were warm, sure, the lips so desperately pressed against his, as was the steamy breath spilling from Karofsky's nostrils, heating his face uncomfortably. There was no softness however, not in the way the kiss had landed or was continuing despite him, not in the way ten thick, calloused fingers dug at his skull and stretched the skin of his face in all directions, not how the same fingers curled in his hair, and certainly not in the way he was being pulled forward, more so than he would have thought possible in the short distance between the two boys.

And the rush of adrenaline through his veins, the surge of terror and anxiety was different from that of finally giving into instinct and planting your own lips against those of the gorgeous boy you first met on a staircase, who fixed your lapel and held your and practically serenaded you with the latest and greatest Katy Perry song. This was different because the terror was _real_. There were no butterflies fluttering about his stomach,  
>because God only knows how trapped and tangled they'd be in the knots. Kurt wasn't one to be afraid. But here he was, under fire and holding on to his own sanity for dear life only seconds into the excruciating one-sided madness that was this pathetic excuse for a first kiss.<p>

The lips were moving against his. Were his own lips supposed to move as well? In the movies, they did, right? In those too-pretty movies in bright colors where the girls would wear simple dresses in tacky cuts and the boys had hair caked in product, the camera would always zoom in to show the crushing of their lips and both sides would falter and finally collapse into it and they'd sway against one another and move and maybe even open their mouths a little bit.

But this wasn't one of those classic slumber party-esque chick flicks, and Kurt couldn't tell whether his heart was beating wildly or had stopped completely. It _hurt_ the way David held him too tightly and fought so strongly against him, because, _oh_, Kurt was struggling now, wasn't he? Squirming aimlessly against the grasps of the hands he hadn't known were capable of this, of anything more than comparatively harmless shoves and tosses.

He didn't want this. He wanted to pull away, to shout, to scream, but most of all, to somehow fix an obvious mistake he had made. If he'd just fallen to the floor like the broken boy he would never admit to having become, just held his knees to his chest and waited out the pain and humiliation before joining the oblivious crowds, things would be different. Why had he followed the jock here? Why had he come after him thinking he could possibly get away with it, considering the other boys pure strength and size?

Oh, that was right, _Blaine_.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been thought of the way that Blaine had accidentally sent him here with his vaguely inspiring text message. And he certainly shouldn't have been thinking about how much less he would have been struggling if it had been Blaine's warm lips on his, and Blaine's cool breathe swirling across his face. But he was, and suddenly, as if it hadn't been so earlier, he wished to be anywhere else, having this, his _first real kiss_, with anybody else.

They parted after what felt like ages, not, of course, because of Kurt's futile attempts at forcing the older boy away, but simply to allow David to suck in a steady breath, his eyes gleaming as he stared heartlessly back at Kurt with so much longing and _need_ that Kurt's ordinarily porcelain skin flushed before he shakily dragged in a gulp of oxygen, still polluted with the larger boy's breath.

Karofsky had stolen something from Kurt, something that he had meant to preserve and only give away to the man he loved when the time was right. There he was, his terror-stricken, confused mind wandering quickly, because what would he tell his father, and Blaine, and lord, oh, lord, _what would he tell his grandchildren when he and his husband sat next to each other on a loveseat and he was forced to answer just how long he had loved the man who was holding him and whether they had met in high school and who, then, had he had his oh-so-important first kiss with?_ when he noticed David lunging forward to rob him once again, this time of his _second _kiss.

His hands mechanically rose to meet a muscular chest and give it a shove away, his eyes wet and cloudy, his moth agape and unprotected, throwing the other boy slightly off balance, as if he wasn't expecting the resistance, as if he hadn't even noticed that Kurt had been _fucking resisting him the entire time_. The tears swarming Kurt's eyes threatened to spill over at that thought. _Karofsky hadn't noticed. He hadn't even noticed_. And as Karofsky dove forward, taking him roughly by the shoulders this time, Kurt knew he'd lost, because his struggling, his silent pleas, his obvious terror, hadn't even _registered_ in the thick skull of the boy who held him so tightly and kissed him so desperately.

_This isn't what I want_, he screamed internally as Karofsky's hungry lips met his again, and one of the unfamiliar hands skillfully snaked its way down his free arm, grasping at his wrist and pulling it to his own thick waist. The other cupped his chin, sickeningly gentle as it handled the lightly stubbled chin, holding it in place. Kurt's arm was given a yank, nearly causing him to cry out into the hot mouth pressed against his as his shoulder threatened to free itself from its socket, and forced to settle at David's hipbone.

_He wants me to want this. He wants me to want it as badly as he does._

And David Karofsky _did_ want this. Granted, he wasn't exactly the most flamboyant guy in school, as a member of the McKinley High football team, and the first to shout out homophobic slurs at Kurt in the halls without a second thought or a guilty conscious. Yet here he was, gripping the shoulder and chin of the one out kid in school, wanting him so badly that he didn't think that he could ever get close enough to, ever taste enough of this beautiful, innocent boy.

Kurt felt hopeless. One armed pinned between his own and his attacker's chests, the other beneath David's hand at the base of his letterman's jacket, his feet necessarily planted to the floor to avoid toppling over as he was tilted backwards, Karofsky consistently leaning forward, into him, coming closer and closer even as they touched, there was little, _nothing_, he could do.

Karofsky opened his mouth against Kurt's. His tongue licked sloppily at the other boy's lips and when denied entrance, retreated momentarily, before Kurt felt a nibble at his lower lip, causing him to gasp, and allowing David's tongue the space it craved to invade. He tasted like soap and dirt and spit and all sorts of other nasty things. Evidently, David was far more pleased with the taste of Kurt, his tongue swimming around, exploring Kurt's mouth, sliding across each and every one of his teeth and performing some sort of dance with Kurt's reluctant tongue, which, to David's disappointment, refused to reciprocate. He needed the boy to want him. He needed to feel fucking wanted even if he was a filthy fag and so was the single boy who could even understand him, the same boy he was leaning down to force into a kiss producing sparks only he could truly feel.

Kurt's lips were swollen and wet with their combined saliva and his salty tears, finally steaming down his face and pooling just above where the two boys seemingly became one. His neatly trimmed nails clawed at Karofsky's chubby waist, but did little damage. Suddenly he noticed that his chin had been freed. Shaking his head to face the lockers, he opened his mouth as wide as it would allow and let out a scream that was strangled by his sobs and swollen throat before it had a chance to reach the open.

And - holy _hell_, _was that a hand on his ass?_ It was and _shit shit shit_ it was grabbing at him and his muscles were clenching beneath the fingers, which were beginning to roam and squeeze and pat and rub as if they thought they fucking belonged there and could do whatever the hell they wanted. He let out a short whimper as the hand delightedly tightened its grasp, which was quickly cut off by Karofsky's mouth once again once he'd begun craving the taste after so many seconds parted.

With David's tongue down his throat and David's chapped hands on his ass it was all Kurt could do not to lose consciousness right then and there. He stiffened, entirely numb to the sensory overload that was taking him at the moment, as the larger boy turned the two of them, allowing Kurt's back to slam, _hard_, into a closed locker.

Karofky's hand released Kurt's wrist to find the smaller boys throat, pinning it against the cold red metal. Kurt should have been shrieking, shouldn't he? And teachers and students should have been running to find him at the sound, should have been rescuing him. But only silence erupted from either boy as his eyes, dripping even as he futilely attempted to blink the tears away and clear his vision, locked with Karofky's, the larger boy having pulled his swollen mouth away for only a moment, pressing his hand just a bit further against Kurt's throat so that a final half-breath left the smaller boy's mouth and no others were permitted entrance.

"_Fucking faggot."_

_Fucking faggot._

**AN: So… what do you think? Klaine is coming, I promise you that much. Also, in future chapters, you'll get a chance to see what went down in the locker room. Oh, and if you care, I **_**do**_** have a Tumblr. My url is noplaceforabasketcase, so feel free to follow! Review, review, review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I'm going to just be straightforward here and say that I love Blaine to pieces, so I **_**will**_** be torturing him. Still, there will be a happy/hopeful ending and tons and tons of Klaine, no worries. So without further ado, I present to you chapter two of Comfort Me. Enjoy.**

"_Hello, you've reached Blaine Anderson, unfortunately I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a _- Hey! Sorry, couldn't find my phone just then. Who am I speaking to?... Hello?... Hello? Who is this?"

"Uh..."

"_Look_, if this is some kind of joke, I -"

"B-Blaine?"

"Hey! Kurt, hey, sorry. I just left my phone in... wait, where are you calling from?" Did that sound weird? That sounded weird, didn't it? That he didn't recognize the number? He shouldn't even _know_ the number. Shit, he _really _shouldn't know Kurt's number. He shouldn't have plugged it into his phone the moment he got home after meeting the blue-eyed boy. He shouldn't have read it over and memorized it like some sort of stalker. Mentors didn't do with their sweet young pupils. That was creepy. Shit.

"It's... um. I b-borrowed it."

"From who?" Unimportant, Blaine, unimportant. Don't be so jealous. Don't think of the numerous gorgeous, unworthy boys who surely must have been throwing themselves at Kurt since even before his coming out. Don't think of how willing anybody with a brain would have been to lend him a cell to call up his warbler friend... wait, why had he called? Had he asked that yet? "Nevermind, just, what's up? Everything going okay?"

"It's.. um. Not really. No." His voice had cracked on the last word. _Shit_.

"What happened." It wasn't even a question, because at this point Blaine wasn't questioning anything. Something had happened, something really _fucking _bad considering the disappearance of Kurt's usually concrete composure, and he intended to do something, _anything_about it.

"It's just... I..."

"_Kurt"_

"Karofsky."

"_Fuck." _He supposed his own composure had gone off to gallivant with Kurt's, now. Wherever they may be, he hoped they were happy together, because _fuck fuck fuck._

Blaine had been studying in the library after class. Most of the other students had retreated back to their dorms or gone to hang out elsewhere. Sure, it made him look a bit overeager for the coming exams, but he had made it his mission to cram in as much studying as possible. He refused to dip into the C range this semester. Usually this wouldn't have been a problem for him, but Madame Losavio was doing little to encourage him in French, and seeing as the entire class thought of him as a lost cause, tutoring was out of the question.

Now his lessons were the last thing on his mind, and his bag was slung haphazardly across his shoulder, still hollow as his books were gripped tightly in his left hand. The other clutched his phone so tightly that it might have snapped and shattered had this been some idiotic testosterone-fueled superhero film. His blazer, which he'd removed for mere comfort whilst in the library, now hung over his right elbow and threatened to drop onto the pavement at any moment, because suddenly he was rushing out towards his car, still entirely unaware of the circumstances besides _Kurt_.

"Where?"

"I... what? Blaine..."

"Kurt, where are you? _Please._"

"McKinley. Blaine, I... oh, _shit._"

"Kurt?" He had made it to his car by now, and was manicly trying to force his key into the ignition, that is, if that was even the correct key. Damnit, why did he have so many blasted keys on his keyring?

"Just..."

"Kurt, _talk to me._" He sounded so _desperate_. Always so sickeningly desperate. Ugh.

"I just... _the blood_, Blaine, I can't..."

Blaine tensed at that. He sped up, reaching a pace even further beyond the speed limit than he'd already been hurtling. Because he'd only just realized how weak and quiet Kurt sounded and the way that what he'd thought had been pauses, breaks in conversation, had really been short interludes of the other boy's broken sobs.

"_Blaine..._" And then the phone went silent, save for a strange roaring sound Blaine couldn't quite understand.

He wasn't sure whether or not his car was still running. The expensive one his parents had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, with the built-in navigation system and shiny silver paint job. The same car that sat crooked against the curb in front of McKinley High with its keys still dangling from the ignition and the lights still on. Or off. Once again, he couldn't recall.

He knew that _he_ was running, though. The car aside, of _this _he was sure , as a matter of fact, his dress shoes slipping against the white and red tiles the school's janitors had so generously mopped and dried maybe an hour or two earlier, he made his way through the hallways, listening for Kurt's speaking or shouting or breathing in between the echoes of his own frantic calling of the younger boy's name.

And, well, it certainly wasn't Kurt, but it was something, and he ran after it. A pounding, whooshing, rushing sound. The sound of water smacking a ceramic floor. A sound that, between two distant cell phones, might sound a bit like an untamed lion's roar. And that's when Blaine dove into a small alcove in the wall to his left and ripped the door open, his fingers twitching nervously around the handle.

"Kurt!" His voice bounced off the walls, coming back to greet him, mocking the emptiness of the stale room before him., He spun around, reaching a shortened wall of lockers that didn't quite reach the ceiling and threw himself behind it, towards the filthy and reeking bathroom stalls whose stench hadn't been cleared out even with the custodian's best efforts, and the shower stalls, each with a clear curtain yanked to the side and wrapped around a hook driven into the tiles, except for one.

Cautiously, Blaine Anderson stepped towards the metal curtain rod that sat on the floor, the rungs and plastic of its hangings beside it, having slid off in a fall. The head of this shower, unlike the others, hung loose, and swung gently, squirting out water at every imaginable angle, particularly in the direction of a small body cowered in the corner.

His first instinct was to run, run far and fast and never turn back. Run from the blood pooling at the floor of the cubicle, familiar to him even as it swirled in neat patterns and chased the clean water down the drain, polluting the purer liquid in its path. Run from the broken boy who's pale body seemed almost sunken, leaning limply against the wall, the water running down it yet doing little to stem the flow of blood emerging from a large cut running from the boy's left temple to midway beneath his left cheek, and another in the shape of an almost perfect oval that covered about a quarter of his otherwise smooth forehead. The boy's eyes were closed, however, and this worried Blaine almost as much as the bruises speckling his neck - fingerprints, Blaine realized, chocking on nothing mid-breath.

"_Kurt_.. oh, oh God. Kurt." No response from the sleeping figure, however. Sleeping? Or - but no, the boy's chest rose and fell in a careful pattern, shaky breaths leaving him, stalled as they caught in his throat. Maybe it was the way that he looked so innocent, his skin a sheet, his thin eyelids masking the bright blue eyes beneath, maybe it was the way that even in unconsciousness, there was no peace in his demeanor. Battered and broken quite obviously, his right arm twisted at a crude angle, one leg tucked towards him and the other outstretched, almost mid-kick. His lips, bright red either from the blood above the surface or beneath, Blaine couldn't be certain, were swollen and their corners turned slightly downward in a way Blaine hadn't yet seen. Something about the image threatened to fold Blaine into himself.

Instead, he reached forward, numbly, his arm a steel rod, his normally careful fingers clasping around the knob which controlled whether the shower froze or burnt and switching it one click past "COLD." The rain ended and the last of the pink-stained water rushed down the drain.

"K-Kurt?" Blaine whispered. He crouched forward, swinging the dangling showerhead away from himself, and began to inspect the tiny boy before him.

Where Kurt's sweater had fallen, drenched, from his shoulder, Blaine could see the outlines of fresh red indentations in his back, purple along the edges. Besides the gashes marking his face, his pouted lips captured a drop of blood. A split lip, Blaine assumed.

That is, until Kurt let out a muffled cough, and a new stream of blood poured from those same swollen lips, followed by a broken, gargled scream that mimicked just how crushed and stomped on his mangled body looked to his dark-haired mentor.

Kurt's one bent leg stretched, kicking forward in a single sharp movement that caused his face to twist up in pain on top of pain on top of fear. Because, yes, fear and hate and terror clouded his usually florescent ocean-eyes. Fear because he was damp and cold and sitting in the corner of a shower stall he'd never been in before, considering he'd always refused to use the things after gym class, not that he'd get very sweaty at all anyway, he hardly participated above the requirements, and fear especially because a dark-haired curly-headed boy was crouched over him and _everything fucking hurt._

Blaine heard the scream cut off in reality even as it continued to roam and rip apart his mind, and watched as Kurt's eyes lost whatever focus they'd gained in his short few moments of consciousness, roll to the side, and finally fall shut once again, blood dripping still from the boy's slack chin.

It could have been his adoration for a certain Nicole Kidman film, but Blaine lost it just then. Because blood was meant to pump through veins and fuel the heart, and stir the brain, not pour from mouths and stain teeth and drip down filthy drains. Because if it was doing those things it wasn't supposed to and _not_pumping through veins, and fueling the heart, and stirring the brain, what was? Only hope that Kurt would grin through a reddened smile and tell him that this was some sick, twisted joke, and that Blaine wasn't going to lose him forever, like he sure as hell thought he would. But hope never did much good in situations like this. Hope couldn't keep people alive.

"Kurt, _please_, Kurt!" His voice was hoarse. He swallowed his panic in one painful gulp and tasted salt. He was crying for a boy he'd only just met. A pretty, special, tortured boy whose stillness was breaking his heart. A boy who had just screamed at the mere sight at him. A boy who was afraid of him. A boy who was just afraid.

And he leaned forward and took the boy into his arms, pulling him into his lap after crossing his legs. Slowly, though, as he knew little of where or how badly the boy had been broken. Kurt's body was relaxed in his arms, but the rising and falling of his chest told Blaine that he hadn't left him. Not yet.

A beeping from behind startled him, before he turned back, a grimace set plainly on his face, to assure himself that his stirring hadn't caused Kurt any level of agony. Arching his neck behind him, careful not to adjust the position of his lap so much that Kurt would be affected, he stretched his closest arm to grab at a cell phone sitting just beside where he'd found Kurt, cowering in the corner of the cubicle. His own phone was still drowning somewhere at the bottom of his bag, which must have been left by the lockers. Funny, because Blaine didn't remember removing it from his shoulder. Ignoring a NEW TEXT MESSAGE from "Mom," he dialed and redialed the three numbers he'd had drilled into his brain since childhood, pressing the wrong keys a devastating number of times, his shaking fingers and racing mind betraying him, until the call finally went through correctly.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"M-my friend. He... somebody attacked him. I don't know. Somebody hurt him. He's hurt r-really badly, and..."

"What is your location"

"Uh... The locker room? A-at McKinley High School? Lima, Ohio. Um..."

"Assistance is on the way. Could you tell me your name?"

"His name is Kurt."

"And yours?"

"B-Blaine."

"Is Kurt breathing, Blaine? How's his pulse?"

"Um..." Blaine felt, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as his finger found Kurt's steady pulse, "Okay. I-I feel it. He's breathing. He's... he's not conscious. Not anymore. I think... I don't know. I don't know but... but he was coughing up blood and, and... I just - I just don't know." His thoughts broke, each sentence interrupted with a sob that wracked his body and made him fear for shifting the bruised and bloody boy in his arms.

"Okay, Blaine, I'm going to ask you to stay on the phone with me and let me know if anything changes, alright? And if he wakes up, you need to keep him awake, okay? Everything is going to be fine, Blaine. Things will be okay."

Blaine almost believed her. Until he pulled his hand from where it had been gently stroking Kurt's smooth hair, as he'd always found fingers in his curls comforting, and found it sticky and red. That's when he lost it.

So much for courage.

**AN: Oh God, okay, so I'm basically just DONE with this chapter. It was a pain in the butt, so I just decided to post it before I went insane. I'm **_**really **_**afraid about not getting the characters right. And Blaine was a little out of character here, but that was intentional because he's freaking out. Also, other reasons, which should come up later. There shouldn't be as much cursing in coming chapters, I did that for a reason (I actually don't curse in real life, haha). But let me know what you think about how I'm writing the characters, or how I'm writing in general, I want to do them all justice. Also, I basically know how the story will play out, but idea are GREATLY APPRECIATED. I want to know what you guys want to read, haha. Especially how you want me to go back and explain the locker room scene, because that will be happening, I'd just like to know how much you'd like to see. Oh, and do you guys mind flashbacks? Like a few? I'm contemplating how to write certain aspects of the story. I can't believe that people are reading this. Thank you so much for the favorites, alerts, and reviews. Reviews are always awesome because you are all so sweet and your criticism is incredibly helpful. Oh, and if you have a question, I'd love to answer it in the next update. Does a chapter a week (at least) sound okay to you? And finally, my Tumblr url has been changed temporarily to dumbhuman-likeyou. If you want to follow, feel free! And definitely talk to me there, I don't bite! Okay, this has been a long authors note. Thank you so much, I love you guys. Reviews are love and motivation, so review review review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I know this is late and I'm super sorry. Summer happens and editing takes longer than the actual writing. It's shorter than the others, but is really here more to progress the story and manage the characters than develop the plot. Enjoy and review (:**

Burt Hummel didn't like hospitals. Not that many folks are ever understandably or admittedly fond of the white walls and flourescent lights leaving wide thick windows, but Burt was different. Burt hated the places with an ache that sat in his chest as his foot stomped down on the gas of his truck. For months after his Lizzie had passed, it was an aunt or neighbor or family friend that escorted Kurt to his appointments, suspicious of the reasoning behind Burt's awkward excuses, but not so much as to press him for it. He hated the way the wallpaper never laid right, and the way the cats and elephants in the many paintings hanging on the walls always wore clothes and birthday hats. What he hated the most were the ghosts that roamed the halls, ghosts of Lizzie, ghosts of his late father, ghosts of the picturesque family of three he'd had before his wife was stolen from him and Kurt and himself had been left to make the most of a motherless home until Carole came along.

Carole was coming along now, of course. She'd been phoned as well and had hastily said goodbye to the host of the luncheon she'd been at and rushed over to Noah Puckerman's house to pick up Finn and explain the little she knew to her only biological son on the way home.

He was flustered and the steering wheel jerked in an unfriendly way under his desperate grasp. He knew something was wrong, but not what, and that was the reason for his white knuckles and cherry red face and pursed lips and sunken eyes. He was headed straight towards the place he detested the most, at unsafe and unregulated speeds, because his son was there and his son needed him more than he ever had at those stupid appointments he'd been too cowardly to take him to.

Burt parked his car as close to the building as possible and stormed into the brisk autumn air. He hated knowing where the entrance was, although he supposed at a time like this, it came in handy. Stepping in he was assaulted by the smell of liquid sanitizer and rubber gloves, each of which made him instantly nauseous. Not that he truly cared.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" A young woman, likely in her early twenties, with rosy cheeks and dark hair which contrasted nicely with her fair skin smiled up at him nervously. Her scrubs were purple and blue, decorated with the image of tiny flowers all pressed together, and a grey stethoscope hung from her shoulders. Burt wanted to send her home. She seemed meek and hesitant, he supposed there was a mother or father at home who had paid for her schooling and hadn't considered just how odd a man much like him would find the uniform and equipment on someone as youthful as her, but he was terrified of the place and wanted her out, before it damaged her like it had him, as if it were a burning building she needed rescuing from.

"I'm here to see my son." His voice was gruff and quiet. He muffled a cough against his sleeve and waiting, itching to run from the place.

"Can I get your name please, sir?"

"Burt Hummel. I'm here to see my son," he repeated, "Kurt... Kurt Hummel. I don't know what's going on. I - I need to see him. Where is he?"

"Sir, could you please sit down here? From what I've been told, he's being... uh, fixed up a bit right now, alright? You'll be called back the moment the doctors see fit. As soon as he's awake and stable, you'll be told."

"No, I - I need to be there when he wakes up! If that kid wakes up alone in a hospital bed, he'll be terrified, please, _he needs me_."

"Sir, please -"

"No!" Here he grabbed the nurse's arm and stared at her with wide fearful eyes, shaking his head from side to side, as if it would clear his mind, but knowing planly it wouldn't. "I need to be there. Look, I don't know what the hell is going on, I only know that my son's back there, and he hates this God forsaken place almost as much as I do. Please. Just let me see him - l-let _him_ see _me_."

"I _can't_." She said this, but still looked torn. "I'll - fill you in, alright? I understand. I know you want to see your son but I can't let you back there. I'll let you know the moment the doctor's are finished with him, and hopefully we can get you back there before he's awake. That's the best I can do. Now, please, sit. It could be a long wait. I'm very, very sorry Mr. Hummel." She looked honest enough, Burt thought as she guided him by his shoulder to a chair sitting against the nearest wall before turning on a black sensible heel and steering herself down the hallway opposite the waiting room. Burt considered calling Carole, but thought better of it. She knew where he was, and it was best that she stayed with Finn. He'd catch her up later.

"Her name is Kate" a quiet voice from beside him whispered. The voice belonged to a short boy in a pair of navy dress pants and shiny shoes, with a striped blue and red tie that screamed "private school". His hair was dark and curly, plastered down in places, but wild and loose in others. He was clean shaven, but his face was tired, and his eyes bloodshot, darting about the room anxiously. What interested Burt the most, however, was the boy's white button-down shirt, it's sleeves yanked three quarters of the way up his toned arms, which was splattered with red. "She's nice."

"She seemed it." Burt didn't know what to say. The boy looked sad, but not in any sort of physical pain. He wondered where the wound was, where all the blood had come from, and why he hadn't been ushered back into his own room yet. Shouldn't he be treated? "Burt Hummel," he poked a greasy hand out for a moment from inside his thin denim jacket to shake hands with the boy, who simply stared at it blankly, contemplating whether or not to return the gesture with his own trembling hand, and instead setting for an apologetic smile.

"Yeah, uh... I know who you are. I, um, I'm Blaine Anderson. You're Kurt's father. I'm a, uh, friend of his. From Dalton Academy." Blaine's eyes were soft and wet and his arms were curled around his chest as if holding him together. However, as he spoke, Burt noticed his tone was clear and vindictive, and his back straightened slowly from his original hunched-over position.

"Oh, uh... a friend of Kurt's? I haven't heard much about you, Blaine."

"We only met recently, sir. He came to spy on the Warblers... our school's glee club, sir." Burt noticed the boy smile fondly at the mention of this memory and thought that maybe Blaine would be a good friend for Kurt t have.

"Where are your parents?" The questioned seemed to throw Blaine off a bit.

"Uh... my father's on a business trip, sir. And my mom is travelling. I board at Dalton, so they don't need to worry about finding somebody to look over me." He held himself a bit taller as he spoke, his voice growing harder.

"Do they know you're here?"

"No."

"_Why_ are you here, anyway?"

"I uh... Mr. Hummel,"

"Burt."

"_Burt_, I was... I actually, uh, I was the one to find Kurt, sir. After."

_Well then_.

Burt's facade cracked, and he became the little boy who held his mommy's hand and cried when he'd come in for shots and the man who'd left in tears with a sleeping, worn out little Kurt after his wife had been pronounced dead at 12:11 PM all at once. "I don't know anything, kid. My son is in there, and... and that nurse out here, that Kate said that the doctors are fixing him, but I still don't know what's broken."

Both men took a breath here.

"Please tell me something."

And Blaine had to. "He called me. I was at school, I didn't really _know_... anything. But I drove over and... he was unconscious in the corner of a shower stall in the boys' locker room soaking wet. The water was on and... and he looked pretty bad. He's bruised up... they wont tell me anything but... but something's wrong because he was coughing up blood and... and..." Blaine was sobbing now, tears spilling down his cheeks while Burt sat motionless beside him, wondering for both the boy and his son, so far away, broken and leaving near strangers crying after him.

"That's not your blood on your shirt, is it?"

"No, sir," Blaine choked out between sobs, wiping his eyes violently and then pulling his wet fingers in front of his face, staring at them angrily, "I'm so sorry Mr..." taking in the other man's face he corrected himself, "Burt."

"Nothing to be sorry for, kid."

It was odd to Blaine, because he'd never really had this, the weight of another person's arm sitting across his shoulders without pressing him or pulling him or directing him, just resting there. He'd never thought it looked incredibly comfortable, yet here he found himself leaning into Burt's touch. It was nice.

It didn't make him feel any less sorry though.

He hadn't put Kurt in the hospital bed, hadn't beaten him or tortured him or scared him beyond reasoning as David Karofsky surely had, but he'd been the one to send him to the locker room unafraid, trying to be inspirational and stupidly glorifying standing up to the bully, rather than backing down and playing it safe as he probably should have. Sure, Blaine hadn't been aware of the consequences, but it was he who'd made Kurt scream out from the corner of the shower stall, eyes wide and _seeing_ Blaine, most definitely, as what he truly was: a bully.

Because once upon a time, Blaine Anderson was somebody else's Karofsky.

"Mr. Hummel?" Kate smiled warmly down at the two of them. Blaine realized that he had gotten more comfortable than he had meant to, leaning enthusiastically against Burt's shoulder, and smiled meekly before pulling away.

"Is he..." Burt yawned, he must have dozed off a bit whilst waiting, "Is he ready? Can I - we, go see him?"

"Um..." Kate's eyes darted questioningly between the two boys.

"My nephew."

Not entirely convinced, but accepting Burt's story quickly, Kate agreed to let the two of them back, and guided them briefly down a hallway, leading them to an unmarked room and reminding them to allow Kurt his rest, before spining around fluently and stepping back down the hall with long strides.

Burt's hand spun the handle eagerly, and Blaine closed the door behind them as the large man stepped in, taking the extra moment to gulp down a bit of air before turning to the room. Burt stood directly in front of him, frozen in place, and Blaine noticed his own body taking the same position. Kurt's head and thin arms poked out from the white sheets Blaine was so glad were there. What skin was visible was peppered with bruises. His face was pale and there were large bandages had been taped over the gashes Blaine had seen earlier. He seemed almost peaceful in artificial sleep, eerily immobile and only the only true sign of his survival being the steady beeping of one of the several machines standing next to his bed.

More than anything, Blaine wanted out. He'd only been in a room like this twice: once for his own stupidity and again for his own near insanity. Burt was easing himself in a chair next to his son, his hand stretching to grasp for Kurt's immediately. He turned to Blaine and frowned.

"You okay?"

"Uh... yes, sir?"

"Burt. And you don't look it." Burt sounded bad.

"'M fine." Blaine sounded worse.

"You look like you're getting geared up to make a run for it. You wanna leave? You can go if you want. Shower and get some sleep."

"No, I'm... no." Blaine stumbled over to a plastic-wrapped maroon chair beneath the window, one of several, and trained his eyes on the boy who laid in front of him.

He wanted so badly for Kurt to wake up to him sitting there and smile, but also for Kurt to never come to and for his mind to never race back to what had happened to him, or his eyes to open and look over the damages, leaving him to realize what all of it meant.

Blaine let the side of him that wanted Kurt awake win, because what sort of man would he be to want Kurt Hummel dead?

**AN: Let me know if you hate it, but especially if you love it! Reviews are love and motivation. Also, I love Blaine, and I wont make him some sort of villain, if that's what you're wondering. However, he will be stupid, so watch out for the next chapter. Review review review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Sorry for the long wait! This summer has been a lot busier than I thought, but I'm glad to crank this chapter out for you guys. It was originally a bit longer, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanging while I finished it up, so I split it up. The next chapter is more than halfway done and should go over quite a bit of what went down in the locker room. Enjoy!**

There was a soft humming beside him, a wordless tune that was frustratingly impossible to place. His eyes fluttered open and suddenly his dark world became bright and shiny. He wondered for a moment if winter had come early, for it seemed as if a blanket of snow had fallen over his room, startlingly white and crisp. He assumed his father had turned on the heat because despite the white surrounding his petite frame, he was toasty warm. Yet again, perhaps he hadn't, considering the snow wasn't melting. That was odd. Even stranger was the fact that it had snowed at all, indoors at least. Was that even possible?

But oh, that wasn't snow, was it? It was a thin sheet wrapped around his body. The floor, walls, and ceiling all matched, as far as he could tell, although he didn't feel much like moving to check. Or breathing. Even that stirred his chest uncomfortably. Maybe if he sat up... but, oh, he couldn't do that either? That was strange. That was... wrong.

But suddenly it was right. Everything was right, because a soft hand had grabbed his. Kurt's body relaxed. The touch was gentle, but sure. It squeezed for a moment, and then retreated, slipping from Kurt's loose grasp, at which point he let out a soft whine and tightened his fingers around the others. He didn't want them to leave. They were warm and smooth and anchored him to reality even as his world blurred and spun in its spectacular whiteness, and the snow danced about him, putting an a fantastic show he could hardly pay close attention to.

"Kurt?" The hand was talking to him. It had a pretty voice, a boy's voice. Well, not the hand, maybe it wasn't the hand talking, but something connected to the hand. A person with a pretty boy voice. A pretty boy voice that had stopped talking after only muttering his name, which caused Kurt's lips to turn down into a pout.

"Why'd you stop?" He tried to say, but it came out as a breathy sigh, though his mouth formed perfectly the words he wanted to get out. It was incredibly aggravating, the way his voice stalled in his throat, and didn't flow all buttery and nice like the pretty boy voice beside him.

He turned his head, slowly as his neck was cramped up. For a moment he wondered how long he'd laid there and just why he was so stiff, but suddenly his eyes leveled with two pretty hazel ones that seemed to take up too much space in his muddled mind to leave room for any other needless thoughts. Kurt nearly cried out. It seemed dreadfully unfair that eyes so pretty and nice that matched a soft boy voice could be so sad. They were wet, almost as if visited by the dew fairies his mother had told him stories about, who danced on the grass while he slept and sprinkled drops of water on his lawn. The boy should have been smiling, Kurt thought that a boy so nice looking must have a lovely smile, and while the sparkle in his eyes was endearing, it made Kurt's heart ache in his chest.

"I can call your father up here for you, Kurt..." The voice was reluctant, but lingered on his name pleasantly. Blaine's hand began to slip from his once again, and the hazel eyes darted anxiously toward the door.

"Sta-ay..." Kurt managed. It felt like drowning, or sinking in quicksand. He felt like he was loosing himself in losing his ferocious grip on the other boy's hand, the only thing keeping him above the water, out of the grasp of faceless monsters who threatened to drag him from this beautiful dimension.

"Are you sure? I can... I can call him or a nurse or something."

"Silly Blaine..." because Blaine was the other boy's name. Blaine was the pretty boy with the pretty voice, the Warbler who had nearly assaulted him with an impromptu serenade or "Teenage Dream" and then spoken to him about life and how much it sucked, and made him feel like more of a person than he had in years, "I only need _you._"

Maybe those words had been said only in the desperation for the soft hand in his, but they'd worked, because Blaine nearly smiled, and then settled down deeper into his uncomfortable-looking plastic chair, his quiet humming lulling Kurt into a peaceful sleep.

The first thing Kurt noticed when he came to for the second time was that everything was brilliant and new, as if the world had shifted and become far more clear. The bright lights beat their way through his closed eyelids and tortured him, keeping him from dozing off again. What was once the soothing pulse of the monitors beside him was now a series of wailing beeps at various drastically sharp falsetto notes that pounded through his skull. Discomfort had become outright pain rooted in an unidentifiable source.

The second thing Kurt noticed when he came to for the second time was that his hand was empty. To be frank, this fact sort of pissed him off, because hadn't he told the hand to stay? Or, at least, the boy attached? There was breathing, and Kurt was pretty sure it wasn't his, so at least the boy had to be there next to him.

With an effort more laborous than Kurt could remember the simple movement ever requiring, he turned his head to the left and opened one eye, which was immediately blinded by the fluorescent lights hanging above him. After adjusting, it took in the body slumped over in a chair that had been dragged from the wall up to his bedside. Blaine was fast asleep, not quite snoring, but breathing heavily through his nose in such an irritating way that Kurt would have slapped him if he didn't look so darn peaceful and if he could figure out how to lift his hand from the bed.

Blaine's hair was tousled. It was adorable, really, to see the boy's curly locks free from product, although it was difficult for Kurt _not_ to notice that they were a bit greasy and Blaine was such a boy, wasn't he, how hard was it to take a shower every once in a blue moon?

"Knock knock... you up, kiddo?" Kurt twisted his head back - _ouch _- and smiled, only half in control of the muscles in his face, apparently, up at his father. "Sorry I wasn't here, had to run down to the cafeteria and grab something to eat. How long have you been up? Not long, I hope?"

Not trusting his voice, Kurt simply shook his head before letting it sink a bit further into the pillow. "Tired," he coughed out.

"Course you are," Burt chuckled, "Only been sleeping for, what? Three days maybe? Three and a half?" He tossed himself down heavily in a chair that clashed horrendously with Blaine's, as only an eye so keen on colors and undeniably trained in the perfection of outfit coordination would have ever noticed. "I'm glad you're up, kiddo. Although the way things are going, I'm guessing the nurses will put you back to sleep just as soon as they know you're awake." He smiled sadly at his son before grinning a bit wider, "Well, what they don't know wont hurt 'em." Burt relaxed in the chair, stretching his feet out and bending his elbows at the armrests. "Kid's been cemented to that chair the whole time," he nodded over at Blaine's limp body, "I've left a few times, never for long or anything, but he's never left your side. How come I've never heard much about him?"

That sounded like the Blaine Kurt knew, or hardly knew, he supposed: steadfast in the simple things, and intoxicating sweet. Because he could have - _should_ have - gotten up to grab a bite or lie down or, really, go home because nothing was keeping him here but a boy he'd only just met. But he hadn't, because...

Oh, right, Kurt had told him he _needed_ him, hadn't he? Shit. That would make things awkward when Blaine woke up.

Which he had.

Well, shit.  
>Blaine had lifted his head just a bit, eyes still cast downward, his hands sloppily wiping the sleep from them and neglecting to stifle a loud yawn that nearly made Kurt giggle. Once he'd rubbed his face awake, he glanced upward, revealing the dark purple shadows beneath his hazel eyes, which hosted a tired, far-off look.<p>

He still managed a smile in Kurt's direction, though, which was nice. At least it told Kurt he was still alive.

"Oh, hey." _Oh hey to you too_.

"Hi." Kurt's voice sounded like a dog's squeak toy. He noticed the way Blaine winced and knew immediately that the other boy had noticed just how weak he sounded. Kurt hated sounding weak. He was one to put up a strong front, to nip at heels with biting comments and sarcastic remarks even when broken up inside. But this was something physical, his one true superpower: his voice, was broken and sickly and weak. Like him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've been better." It should have, could have been something funny, been something very _Kurt_, his way of brushing something so serious from his shoulders and plowing forward, but his words only made Blaine's smile look a little more forced, and his eyes look a little more sad.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry I let go of your hand."

"S'fine." Kurt failed to notice the way Blaine's eyes roamed over his scarlet cheeks, revelling in the flush of blood that told him Kurt's heart was still beating and he and so admirably ignorant to the more appropriate tone of their situation that he was blushing and schoolgirl-ing over something as simple as holding hands.

But to Kurt it was more than embarrassment over the overall awkwardness of begging to hold hands with a boy he'd only just met while half-lucid in a hospital bed. It was a complete and utter self-loathing that enveloped him, because vulnerable was the last thing, the very last thing that Kurt Hummel wanted to be, and vulnerable was the very first thing he'd made himself by reaching out for a hand to ground him when his world was spinning and whirling and the whites around him became too much. He was nearly sick with himself over having needed something, and having made that something a someone - or, at least, as someone's hand - and reaching for it like some sort of child. Kurt Hummel wasn't a child. He'd cooked meals, and sorted the mail, and done the shopping for himself and his father for years, he could take care of himself, thank you very much, and didn't need some pretty boy's soft hand to keep him from floating away.

"I can hold it again if you'd like... if it would help, I mean." Was that a hint of... of longing in Blaine's normally levelled voice?

"I said... 'm fine," Kurt breathed. His eyelids were becoming heavy again, and while all he truly wanted was Blaine's hand on his, he couldn't bring himself to ask for it.

"Oh, okay."

But as Kurt drifted off to sleep, the image of Blaine's kicked-puppy-dog expression still etched in his mind, he could have sworn he felt Blaine's hand grab at his and give it a reassuring squeeze that made Kurt think that maybe Blaine's hand had felt just a little bit empty too.

**AN: So… short but I'm working on my characters, haha. How am I doing? I don't want to screw up our darling Kurt and Blaine, so let me know if you think they're a bit off or anything. Oh, and remember that this takes place right after NBK, so they hardly know each other yet, be Klaine is coming folks, no worries. Also, I seriously love all of you who have read, reviewed, alerted, and favorited. You are the best. Reviews are love and motivation (: See you next chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: A few warnings for this one: physical, verbal, and sexual abuse, language, angst, and confusion. I know this took forever. I have several legitimate excuses, this summer is insane, but I wont bother you with them. Anyway, this was tough to write and I really really need your feedback on this one badly, so please review? Okay I'm nervous already ughhhh don't hate me even if you hate the chapter asdfghjkl;**

Kurt stretched, exhausted, feeling relief set into his cramped frame as he detangled his legs from the sheets and poked his tiny head up from it's pillow to pull out the knots in his neck. He wiggled his toes, eyes still shut to the morning light, pointing his feet like a ballet dancer and simply making himself as long and lean as possible. He reached his arms out to the sides, letting the tension flow from his tight shoulders down to his ten spiny fingers.

And then he realized that only five of those fingers were empty.

A thick, calloused hand was twined with his own, grasping onto him for dear life, causing his skin to go white and his fingertips to throb as his circulation was cut off. With a jerk, he tried to rip his own hand away, flopping his body to the side, and rolling like a log until his arm was pulled taught by the other.

He tried to yank his hand free, to pull and twist and spasm his fingers until they were free, but his efforts seemed futil, leaving him weeping, eyes now shut so tight in fear of the world around him that he was beginning to see stars. Kurt felt another hand, similar in it's large size and rough texture, snaking his way up his other arm, pausing at his bicep and applying pressure, pinning him to the bed. He trashed and wailed, but was only greeted by another hand, which repeated the procedure to his opposite arm, and then two others to his legs.

Digging his heels into the sheets and thrusting his neck back at an awkward angle, he lifted his hips toward the ceiling, crying and yelling and suddenly realized that he was begging, "Oh god, _please_, please... let me go, oh _God_ no no no, let me _go_ - PLEASE!" through his tears.

But suddenly his voice ran out, his pleas choked off by two hands on his throat, fingernailes digging into his flesh as the palms pressed tighter and tighter and _oh, god, he couldn't breathe_, and Kurt was going to die. He was going to die and suddenly he opened his eyes for the last goddamn time and - David Karofsky.

Kurt let out a scream and finally collapsed on the bed.

He'd only meant to wake him. Blaine had only meant to pull him from the nightmare that had left him squirming and yelping on the bed, his face impossibly contorted into a mask of fear and pain. How could he have known that the real nightmare, Kurt's real nightmare, was reality?

Blaine's mind hardly registered Burt's strong grasp on his shoulders, pulling him from behind into his chair beside Kurt and the doctors adjusted Kurt's wires and IVs and whatever other shit they'd stuck into him over the past few days.

"Blaine, Blaine, shhhhhh, calm down, kid. Calm down." Shifting his hand to perch on Blaine's shoulder, Burt began to quiet the boy's wracking sobs. Blaine hadn't even noticed his crying, the only tears he noticed were Kurt's.

It wasn't even that he had made Kurt cry, because he hadn't and he knew he hadn't. It was that the sight of his face had rendered Kurt unconscious, shut Kurt's previously wide and terrified eyes as if it was all too much to handle.

Should Kurt be afraid of him? Blaine wasn't all too sure. Kurt wasn't the first to sob at the touch of Blaine in a bed not too different from this one.

Oh fuck, he was bawling a quite a bit harder now, wasn't he? Pathetic.

While Kurt slept soundly, his blood swirling with drugs and chemicals that kept him doing so, Burt and Carole, who had been sitting out in the waiting room with a disgruntled Finn, managed to persuade Blaine into abandoning his position, knees tucked to his chest, on his tiny chair for a trip to the hospital cafeteria. The food was mediocre at best, the conversation dry and forced, but he supposed the company may have been brilliant and different circumstances, with a smiling Kurt at his side.

The though of Kurt that way, beside him, grinning warmly and introducing Blaine to his strung-together family, as they described themselves, tugged at Blaine's mind. He liked Kurt a lot. Like, _a lot_, a lot. Something about the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of his father and Carol, the blush that crept into his cheeks when skirting around the edges of his iffy past with his newfound brother, and the way his head tolted a bit to the side when recalling tales of baking cookies or reading stories with his late mother, inspired Blaine.

In Kurt's company, Blaine always felt a sort of spark in his chest, a longing to _know_ the boy before him. He wanted to know the quirks and fears and inner workings of the mind that made Kurt _Kurt_. He knew the boy's sob story, his glittering personality as well, but he needed more, he needed to know the reason for each hearbeat, each intake of breath. He needed to know Kurt inside and out, because Kurt was fascinating and sometimes Blaine needed a friend like that, the type of friend who would sit and talk and smile just _because_, and listen and nod and think when things were screwed up like they so often were.

That was how Blaine justified his iffy meal of mystery meat and chips: Kurt would want him to eat up because Kurt was selfless, and Blaine was his friend. His friend of just five days, but his friend nonetheless.

"You ready to go, Blaine?" Blaine had hardly touched his food, but he followed Kurt's family out the doors of the cafeteria, stopping on the way to dump out the contents of his tray into a garbage can, earning a fierce eye from Carol that he shrugged off quickly.

Blaine hated these walks through the hallways, where whispers of _BlaineAndersonisinagain _froze on polite faces in the forms of wary glances and pitying smiles no matter how many times he assured the staff that he had been on neither end of the injury this time and he was only helping a friend and _sure_ he'd tell his father you'd said hi, even if the last bit was a lie.

Kate strolled toward them in a pair of sea foam green scrubs, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, heels clicking against the tile.

"He's awake," she said, and Blaine could see Burt's shoulders fall as he let out a heavy, loud breath. The poor man hadn't known what the morning's accident meant for Kurt, none of them could have.

"Blaine?" The girl's startling blue eyes met his and she grinned. They'd developed a sort of deranged understanding over the course of the past few days. She still knew nothing of his reasoning for staying in the big white building he hated so much, but she knew that he hated it that he didn't deserve the way it tortured him, and she acted accordingly. "He's been asking for you," her eyes darted to the others standing in the hall.

"He isn't upset with you, kid," Burt mumbled, noticing the way Blaine's face screwed up at the idea of facing Kurt alone, "Probably just wants to talk things through. We'll," he gestured to himself, Carol, and Finn, the latter standing awkwardly against the wall, eyes fixed on his hands, "head out for a bit, pick up some stuff from the store and the house. You need anything from home? We could swing by there."

"That would be great, if you don't mind." Burt shook his head and grinned, "Most of my stuff is at Dalton, I board over there, but if you could pick up a few tee shirts from my closet and maybe a pair or two of jeans - middle drawer - that would be great. Oh and uh..." red began to flood his stubbled cheeks and he began to avoid Burt's eyes in embarassment, choosing instead to focus on the speckled tile below him, "a pair of boxers? Top drawer."

"You're folks..."

"Business trip. Spare key is under the mat. Oh, and help yourself to... whatever." Blaine plucked a pad of sticky notes and a pen from the nurses station, glancing at Kate to make sure it was alright, and jotted down his address before handing it to Burt. "It's not all that far from here."

"Alright, well, we'll be back in a few hours, call if you, er, need anything and, well, good luck in there." Burt shifted his weight awkwardly between his two feet before slowly turning and following the length of the hallway to the door, his family trailing along behind him.

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Blaine spared a hopeful glance at Kate before stepping through the door she help open for him.

Kurt lay small and pale on the bed, his porcelain skin interrupted here and there by streaks and splotches of reds and purples, just as it had been that morning. He looked very much the same, and very much different. His eyes had hardened, sharpened and intensified with some sort of vindiction Blaine didn't understand. His mouth was upturned in a slight smirk that looked plastered on, the rest of his face unaffected.

Blaine heard the door shut behind him, and suddenly they were alone.

"Hey," he managed.

"Hey." Kurt's voice was cool and rough from lack of use.

"I just had lunch with your family. Your dad decided to run home and pick up a few things. If you needed anything in particular I could cal-"

"Did you know that they've been sending people in to interrogate me?"

"Wait... what?"

"Yeah. The nurses, and doctors, and some Sherlock Holmes folks without the trench coats have been coming in all day, asking all kinds of questions. It's like a bad movie."

"What have you been telling them?"

"I don't remember anything."

Blaine took an involuntary step back, "You don't... remember _anything_? Nothing? Kurt-"

"Blaine, I remember everything." Kurt sounded so sure, so strong even as he lay there barely breathing, that his words left Blaine dumbfounded.

"But you just-"

"_You_ just asked me what I told them. And I just answered. 'I don't remember anything.' Just playing my part in this flop film. That's how it goes, isn't it? Determined detectives, confused victim, handsome prince..." he blushed at this regretfully, and looked away from Blaine for a moment. "I'm still waiting for some comic relief, it's all a bit on the heavy side so far, but I'm sure Finn's got that covered. Has tripped up the stairs yet?"

Mouth agape, Blaine shook his head, "Kurt..."

"_Blaine."_

"I... you have to... what happened was a serious issue, Kurt. If you remember, you have to... just tell me, okay? You can tell me? Or, you know what, Burt, too! Your dad will listen, or Carol, or Finn, or anybody, Kurt, just... you have to tell. I'm just so scared for you, Kurt, and-"

"_You're_ scared for me, Blaine? Are you? Maybe I'm not telling because I'm just the littlest bit scared too!" His words smacked at Blaine like a whip, his tongue smashing against his teeth as he forced his fears and pains to fit into tiny snide remarks like he so often did.

"I'm sorry, Kurt." And he was. "I realize that I have no right to even try to understand what you're going through right now, and taking that hurt and fear and turning it into self-pity is incredibly selfish and I apologize. I just... tell me what to do, Kurt. Do you want me to leave?"

Kurt sighed in frustration and what sounded like resignation, and shot Blaine a question of his own, "Why are you here, Blaine?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I don't even know you, Blaine, and you sure as hell don't know me. God, I can't even figure out why I called you, I really don't, I just... why are you hanging out with my family, and having my dad bring your clothes over, and skipping school to sit by my bed and watch me sleep and scream and talk under the influence of medication in between sponge baths and episodes of Judge Judy? Why in God's name are you sticking around?" Kurt's eyes were sad and glistening with tears, but his face was a hard mask, angry because, god damnit he was sick of this bed and this hospital and this situation, and Blaine understood that.

That didn't mean it hurt any less.

Blaine ran a hand through his messy curls, the other clenching and unclenching as his body swayed and shook in frustration, anger, and an overwhelming sadness that he couldn't have placed if he'd noticed it, "Just..." he whispered weakly, "tell me what you need."

"I need a fucking answer, Blaine! _Why are you here_?"

"I just... I don't know!" Blaine shouted.

"Well," Kurt's voice grew calm and thoughtful, despite Blaine's outburst, "Then you might as well sit down, and get comfy. Who knows how long it'll take you to figure it out?"

Blaine stumbled forward and collapsed into his previous throne next to the hospital bed, tears blurring his vision and wetting his cheeks. "Shit, Kurt, I don't even know, I'm just... I'm sorry. I feel so stupid, just..."

Kurt shushed him and slowly raised a bandaged hand to Blaine's cheek. His fingers were undamaged, and soft against Blaine's cheek as they wiped away the tears they found there. Blaine's watery eyes met Kurt's for a moment, and the hand stilled and Blaine let out a quiet laugh, smiling because for just a second, he'd let things just be _real_, and if that wasn't a crazy big step for him, he didn't know what was.

_"_Kurt?"

"Mmhm?"

"This morning, did I... do I frighten you, Kurt?"

"_Blaine_," Kurt's eyes were slowly closing, his voice becoming more shallow as he began to drift away - away from Blaine and the nurses and the men who came and asked him questions he had too many answers to, "You might want to figure out the answer to this riddle too, while you're all nice and comfy, but you're the only thing in this world that _doesn't_ frighten me right now, and I dunno why. Now... hold my... h-hand."

And Blaine did.

_Hot, heavy mouth on his, tongue exploring, lips uttering words that meant nothing and everything all at once: _faggot, homo, hummel,_ but not "Kurt," never Kurt.___

_Pressing pressing, pressing him into the lockers, fingers crawling, pulling at his clothes, ripping at his skin, searching, fighting, begging for entrance, desperate for flesh and feeling and contact.___

_Dave's fingers running down his sides. Dave's fingers pulling his hips forward. Dave's fingers toying with the waistband of his jeans, pulling down, letting the brisk air touch and chill pale skin. Zippers and buttons proving fragile beneath thick football-player hands.___

_Moans of "fuck," "God, yes," mingling with piercing shrieks and whines and begging, pleading, "pleasenodon'tpleasenostopstop" that received no response, no recognition, just touches and squeezes and fingers, fingers, fingers all over, and in his hair, around his neck, and under his shirt and pants that weren't there; never stopping, never satisfied.___

_Footsteps in the hallway and "shit shit shit," and pushing and falling, head on tile, cleats stomping, his own screaming. Face on floor, face on face, hand on face, screaming screaming.___

_Clutching at fabric to break yet another fall, the clang of metal, gruff cursing, white tile, shit shit, stomp, screams. Fist to face, fist to shirt, being pulled, pulled, up and closer to an angry face, and angry man, a scared little boy, "I will kill you."_

**AN: I really don't know with this, guys. That last sequence was sort of written as it came to me, unedited and I was so nervous about it. Also, if you couldn't tell, it's a dream sequence. The actual events will be laid out clearer a little bit later, right now you're sort of trapped inside Kurt's mind, so it's all a bit confusing. I didn't want to get too graphic, but I didn't want to skip over it like it didn't happen, so I sort of just… wrote my mind. That makes no sense but whatever, let me know if you hate it. Yay for the longest chapter yet! Also it's 3 in the morning so if there are 456865 typos, I'm sorry. If you have questions of concerns, feel free to talk to me on my Tumblr: dumbhuman-likeyou! Review, review, review!**


End file.
